


Bruises and Blisters

by rhoswenmahariel (salutationtothestars)



Series: Ring Like Silver, Ring Like Gold [4]
Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types
Genre: Established Relationship, Knights - Freeform, M/M, Pre-Canon, Rating May Change
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-04-17
Updated: 2018-04-17
Packaged: 2019-04-24 03:21:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,772
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14346918
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/salutationtothestars/pseuds/rhoswenmahariel
Summary: Loghain had no real objection to the notion of a squire. He possessed a wealth of knowledge that under other circumstances, he would be glad to pass on. But squires trained under the services of a knight. That was the way it was done – the ceremonies, traditions, all built around the notion of inducting a deserving young person alongside yourself into the order. He could teach the lad how to hold a sword and string a bow, how to plan strategy and know when to retreat. Such things were simple. He could not teach him what it meant to be a knight.





	Bruises and Blisters

**Author's Note:**

> “'You may call yourself a squire,' she told him, 'but I’ve seen pages half your age who could have beat you bloody. If you stay with me, you’ll go to sleep with blisters on your hands and bruises on your arms most every night, and you’ll be so stiff and sore you’ll hardly sleep. You don’t want that.'
> 
> "'I do,' the boy insisted. 'I want that. The bruises and the blisters.'"  
> -A Feast for Crows; George R. R. Martin

“I know I have the book somewhere,” Bryce muttered, mostly to himself. He ran his hands along the spine of an old, dusty tome and pulled it out of place to check the front cover. “It isn’t where I left it last, but Aldous peruses these shelves more often than anyone else. Perhaps he’s moved it.”

Maric hummed, an idle response that meant he was not truly listening. Squatting, he wrested a thick book from its place and laid it across his knees for balance. It had to weigh at least thirty pounds judging by size alone, and the pages were so thin that it was easy to see straight through them. Its only redeeming feature seemed to be a series of brilliant illuminations, all depicting various scenes from the Chant of Light. Maric gently touched one with a finger, checking afterward to see whether the paint had flecked away.

“Would he remember where he put it?” he asked, easing the book shut with both hands.

“This is hardly worth disturbing an old man,” Loghain protested. His interest in the map Bryce mentioned had only been a passing fancy, something he would have liked to see if it were easily accessible. Going to the trouble of rousing the scholar in its pursuit was too much. The very thought made him uncomfortable. “At this hour–”

“Oh, I assure you, Aldous is still awake.” Bryce chuckled, and slid down the row to check another shelf. “He stays up half the night studying, and drowses during the day while he’s supposed to be teaching my children.”

“Indeed?” Maric stood again and raised an eyebrow. He smiled, amiably. “I sometimes fell asleep in my lessons as well, although that is a bit different. Can’t imagine what my mother would have done with a napping tutor. He must be good, if you indulge his eccentricities.”

“He’s well-educated, and he’s been here since Fergus began his schooling. Part of the family, in a way. Still, I must admit I do worry whether it’s enough. You saw my son at dinner.”

They had. Both the Cousland children were usually well-behaved, but not so this evening. To his credit, Fergus never quite became belligerent. Anything of that sort would have landed him in a significant amount of trouble. He was a smart boy, however, and smart boys had ways of making their foul moods known without needing to be so obvious. Loghain doubted the acting out was from any streak of rebellion or malevolence. Rather, if he had to guess, the boy was bored. Even in Anora and Cailan, who were close enough to Fergus in age that it made little matter, he often sensed disquiet. It came with the territory of being young – or so he suspected. His own late childhood occurred under considerably different circumstances, so he had no true basis for comparison.

“He’s growing into a fine young man, Bryce,” Maric said. “One who’ll do you proud.”

It was a charitable thing to say, and he knew Maric meant it. While Loghain always struggled to connect with children that weren’t his, Maric had a loving, paternal heart he was happy to share with anyone. A swell of affection bubbled in the depths of Loghain’s chest. For a moment, he considered reaching out to touch his hand: a light, quick press to convey the feeling, and then let it pass.

He couldn’t, of course. Not even here.

Bryce turned away from the shelf to smile at Maric in thanks. “He needs something more, I think.” Crossing the room while he spoke, Bryce grunted as he settled down onto a wooden bench. He had forgotten the book, evidently. In a way, that was a relief. “A new phase of his education,” Bryce continued, gesturing for them to sit beside him. “He might be the Teyrn, one day, and… Well. I’ve been wondering if it isn’t time to send him away to squire. Eleanor doesn’t relish the idea, as you can imagine, but we can’t keep him here forever. Certainly, he can’t learn all he needs from Aldous, or even from me.”

Maric stroked at his beard and hummed, two warning signs that indicated deep thought. One leg, crossed over his knee at the ankle, jiggled a bit. Restless energy. Often, Maric brimmed with it. “Did you have a knight in mind?”

“None. I thought perhaps you might have suggestions, Your Majesty. We trust your judgement and value your opinion.”

Bryce and Eleanor were more friends than vassals to Maric, and he reminded them of this often. It changed little. Loghain, personally, believed someone needed to remember Maric was king, if he wouldn’t do it himself. Usually, that job fell to him.

“I do have an idea,” Maric said, ignoring Bryce’s deference as well as his praise. “Why doesn’t Fergus return to Denerim with us? He’ll have the week to pack, prepare, and to say his goodbyes. He won’t be so far away you can’t visit or write, and you’ll know he’s under my personal supervision.”

Bryce blinked. He spent several long moments carefully gathering his thoughts, hands folding and unfolding in his lap. Just before he spoke, he shot an inscrutable glance at Loghain. In response, Loghain shrugged. The idea was news to him, too. “That’s… quite the offer,” Bryce said slowly, leaning back against the table behind them. “One that I would be honored to accept. But, surely, you don’t mean to take Fergus on yourself?”

Maric laughed outright at that, a loud burst of humor that confused their host even more. “Maker’s breath, no. I’m not even in charge of my own son’s education; I’d never forgive myself if I ruined yours.”

Loghain snorted. Maric was brilliant, a commanding leader, and a gifted strategist – composed of many fine qualities any squire might emulate. Despite this, he was right in declaring himself an unsuitable candidate. They had all seen the way he sat a horse.

Bryce, for his part, visibly relaxed. “Eleanor would like it if he remained close, as would I. This might be the perfect solution. Which knight did you have in mind, if I might ask? I confess, I don’t know them all so well as I ought. I can’t even remember all of their names.”

“None, actually. I was thinking of Loghain.”

Any lingering affection Loghain felt for Maric died. He lurched to his feet so quickly it gave Bryce a start. Glaring, he wheeled on his king, who looked up at him with a somewhat bewildered furrow in his brow. It had been… many years. He was nearly amazed to realize he could still feel this angry.

“Squires are trained by knights,” he said, his voice even, but cold. He might have said more. Instead, Loghain left the implication dangling. It hovered in the air like something tangible, so thick that Bryce noticed. He seemed deeply uncomfortable.

A part of Loghain was sorry. He knew this was not a conversation to be had in front of someone else, but he was too furious to care.

Apparently unaware of Gareth’s ghost lingering between them, Maric rolled his shoulders. “Not always.”

“Typically, then.”

His father had kneeled, once, and sworn his oath of fealty. That same day, Loghain promised himself he would never do the same, not even if the boy-king begged. He didn’t hate the idea of knighthood so much anymore, or resent those who chose it as their path. Still, for himself, it was out of the question – unnecessary. After all, hadn’t he pledged himself to king and country, when Maric made him a commander? What vows could he have said which might mean more than that?

Though he hated to admit it, even to himself, it cut him deep to think it had not been enough.

“I appreciate the gesture,” Bryce said to Maric, while his gaze met Loghain’s, “but I do not want you to feel any obligation. Fergus can go anywhere. Our worries for him are of little concern in the face of his receiving a proper education.”

“There’s no one who can give him a better education than Loghain,” Maric insisted. “My highest ranking general, your fellow teyrn, skilled in short- and long-range weaponry, single-handed victor of a significant number of battles–”

“But not a knight!”

Loghain’s interruption exasperated Maric. Getting to his feet, he closed the space between them so they were almost nose-to-nose, and opened his mouth to argue. He might have even yelled. Mid-breath, however, he stopped. He studied Loghain, for a moment, looking into his eyes with an intensity that would have made another man uncomfortable. Then, he sighed. “It’s late,” he said, taking a step backward. “And we’ve embarrassed ourselves enough, I’m afraid. Let’s table this, for now, and come back to it in the morning. I’m sorry, Bryce.”

“We needn’t discuss it again,” Bryce said. His expression and tone were kindly, betraying none of the relief he must have felt. “I apologize for troubling you with it in the first place.”

“In the morning,” Maric repeated. He motioned for Bryce to walk ahead of him, and nearly finished the gesture by placing his hand at the small of Loghain’s back. At the last moment, his arm dropped. A sheepish smile briefly appeared at the corner of his lips. “We’ll all feel better for a good night’s sleep.”

At the library door, they parted. Bryce asked if they needed an escort to their rooms, and was politely but swiftly turned down. It was easy enough to find them on their own. For the last five or six years, the Couslands accommodated Maric and Loghain’s occasional visits with the same apartments, located in an isolated nook of the guest wing. The rooms were large and comfortable, easily suited both for a king’s royal stature and his desire for some modicum of privacy. Loghain suspected, however, that was not the primary reason these particular rooms were made available to them.

After a seventy year vacancy thanks to the Fereldan Rebellion, Castle Cousland had fallen into a state of extreme disrepair. While Bryce waited to claim his ancestral seat, he busied himself overseeing new construction, particularly in what was once the living quarters. Rather than destroy the existing architecture to create a suite he hoped might one day accommodate a family, he had a new addition built in a more easily accessible location. The former teyrn’s wing was converted for visitors – including what would have been Bryce’s bedchamber and solar. Though they now served as separate bedrooms, the door running between them was never removed.

There were many possibilities that could explain that coincidence away. Giving Maric the grandest guest room in the castle was unquestionable, of course. Its adjoining twin, the former solar, ranked second only because of its smaller size, and its plain, dependable furniture and décor suited Loghain down to the ground. Besides, was it not natural that Maric’s right hand man should have easy access to his king, should trouble arise in the night?

If he asked, Loghain expected he might hear similar answers. He’d promised himself they never would ask. It was bad enough, assuming the Couslands knew their secret. Either confirmation or denial had the equal power to potentially shame him into an early grave.

Outside his bedroom, Maric stopped so suddenly Loghain nearly ran into the back of him. If Maric noticed the misstep, he said nothing. Instead, he watched as Loghain gave him a wide berth and walked on until he reached his own door. He refused to meet Maric’s gaze, knowing too well what he would find there.

“Good night,” he said brusquely, already halfway across the threshold.

Maric said nothing – or if he did, it was lost in the firm click of the door as he pushed it shut behind him.

As Loghain undressed, he pointedly avoided looking at the simple door that linked his room to Maric’s. On other nights, if in the absence of prying eyes, they did not enter one room together, he could expect to hear it creaking open scarcely minutes after they had ‘gone to bed.’ Sometimes, he sought out Maric himself, impatient and eager, but such occasions were rare. Loghain, at least, had to pretend they were not here solely to infringe on the Couslands’ good graces.

He heard nothing. Throwing a nightshirt over his head, he eyed the bottle left on the mantle with no small amount of consideration. He knew it would do him no good. Wine would only sour his mood further, and make sleep more elusive when he sought it. Still, in the absence of a concluded (and well-won) argument, or even some myriad other ways he used to work off stress and irritation, it would serve. He abandoned his clothes where they lay, boots drooping sideways with no feet to fill them, and crossed the room to grab both the bottle and a goblet.

The armchair in front of the fire was no true match for Loghain’s favorite chairs at home, one in his chambers and one in Maric’s. Still, it was fine, well-made Ferelden stock, and he had already positioned it at the angle he liked best. Sinking into its embrace, he poured enough wine to fill the goblet halfway and set the bottle on the floor.

He had no real objection to the notion of a squire. Maric had not been flattering him when he listed his accomplishments; Loghain possessed a wealth of knowledge that under other circumstances, he would be glad to pass on. But squires trained under the services of a knight. That was the way it was done – the ceremonies, traditions, all built around the notion of inducting a deserving young person alongside yourself into the order. Therein lay the problem. He could teach the lad how to hold a sword and string a bow, how to plan strategy and know when to retreat. Such things were simple.

He could not teach him what it meant to be a knight.

It did him little good to imagine what his father might have done. Loghain avoided such fancies, on the whole. The man had been dead for twenty years, and likely would never have begun to guess where he’d find his son two decades after Loghain put his knife to the boy-king’s throat. Still, he entertained the thought this once, already feeling nettled and maudlin. Would he have been a hard master, shooting silent, disapproving glances at his charges until they learned to impress him? Or would he have been gentle, in his way, and patient, the way he was when he taught Loghain the secrets of the forest?

Loghain was not Ser Gareth. He’d thought Maric understood that.

As if in response to Loghain’s thoughts, the shared door to Maric’s room squealed on its hinges. The sound seemed to drag on forever, a prolonged note that nearly drove him to demand Maric do away with pretense and come inside. He pretended not to hear, instead, and glared into his untouched wine.

“I feared you might have locked it.” Maric’s voice was closer than Loghain anticipated – he’d pictured him lingering just inside the doorway, studying the back of his head in that searching, hangdog way he had.

In any case, he would not look at him. Not yet.

“To keep me out,” Maric added, as if an explanation were necessary.

“There’s no key.”

That was the truth, so far as he knew, unless one was kept in the other bedchamber. Perhaps it had been lost years before. What did it matter, if they were the only visitors to use these rooms?

“Truly?” Maric sounded genuinely surprised. “That is a design flaw.”

They lingered in silence for several long minutes, as Loghain watched the flames in the fireplace flicker. Maric made no attempt to come around the front of his chair, or to insinuate himself further into the room. When he spoke again, he sounded hesitant.

“I came to apologize. I thought – well, I suppose that’s the problem. I wasn’t thinking. To my mind, the perfect solution had presented itself, and I saw no reason why Bryce would object. Or you, though I admit that possibility did not occur to me. It wasn’t until after that I…” He trailed off, as if absentmindedly, and then cleared his throat. Voice choked with barely suppressed emotion, Maric said, “I haven’t forgotten your father, you know.”

Loghain stood, and turned to face him.

Maric had yet to undress, still in his shirtsleeves and trousers. There were no unshed tears in his eyes, a small mercy, but his usual self-effacing smile seemed tremulous. His hair was mussed in several directions, meaning he’d run his hands through it in frustration. Loghain had watched him do that many times, pacing back and forth as he talked aloud through whatever problem occupied his attention.

“I never said you had.”

Maric huffed. “No, but you thought it, anyway. I’m not accusing you, you were… you were right to be upset. I know what it sounded like. If I’d had my head on straight, I might have brought it up to you in private rather than embarrass the both of us in front of poor Bryce. Then you could shout at me all you wanted.”

Loghain had no desire to shout at him – at least, not anymore. The anger he’d meant to cling to a little longer had all drained away, replaced by shame and a familiar, hollow sadness. He bent to pick up the wine bottle for the sake of something to do, something that wasn’t holding Maric’s unfaltering stare. Placing it and the goblet both back in their places on the mantle, and taking a deep breath, he forced himself to be honest.

“I know what your intent was,” he said, each word sharp and painful as if he were pulling his own teeth. Discussing his feelings had never come naturally to him, not the way it seemed to for Maric. He rarely had cause to suspect that was a failing. “I suppose I ought to have felt honored.”

Maric took a step forward, stumbling over a quick, “It’s all right that you didn’t,” in his earnestness. Loghain held out a hand, to stop his advance and stem the flow of apologies before they started. He hadn’t finished.

“The day my father died, I swore to myself that I would never be a knight, regardless of what you offered. We never discussed it again after I…”

He had hauled Maric up against a tree and punched him in the mouth, if he remembered correctly. The period immediately after he’d stumbled across his true and destined king, muddy as if he’d been plucked from the earth like a vegetable, was hazy. Whether that was due to advancing age or the frantic rapidity of his entire life falling apart at the time, he couldn’t guess. Maybe, on some subconscious level, he had wanted to forget.

Judging by the way his hand drifted up to his jaw, Maric knew what he’d meant.

“Not truly, no,” Maric said, wincing slightly. “Although I remember using it as leverage once or twice, when I was cross with you. That was uncalled for.”

Loghain waved the belated remorse away. “When you stopped me from leaving, that oath no longer mattered. It hasn’t since.”

He knew they both recalled that day in the stables with perfect clarity. He could still smell the hay, and feel how his face had reddened with embarrassment and pride as he knelt in straw and manure to pledge himself, body and soul, to the service of Ferelden. Even the memory of Rowan remained as it was, preserved carefully so that he could still see the sun glinting off her wet hair and her armor alike.

The promises he’d made then were more important than any other in his entire life.

“I forgot myself.”

It fell short of truly saying sorry. He wished that he could, privately damning his pride and ill ease at revealing himself so plainly.

Still, as ever, Maric seemed to understand. He smiled, softly, and began crossing the room with none of the urgency he’d had before. This time, Loghain did not stop him.

“Maybe we both did.” Once he was near enough, Maric lifted a hand and settled it on Loghain’s cheek. He ran his thumb through the stubble there, against the grain. “Loghain,” he said, “I recommended you because I believe Fergus could ask for no finer educator. Not only are you an exemplary warrior, but you are a good man. Better than any in my service. If a squire grew to become half of what you are, I would be proud to have them in my order.”

Loghain’s insides squirmed uncomfortably at the attention and the praise, even if he knew the latter was warranted. He resisted the urge to remove himself from Maric’s grasp, and instead, reached out to take hold of Maric’s hip and tug him forward. He was tired, and there was no point in fighting anymore.

“Not to beat a dead horse, or anything,” Maric continued, a flush rising in his cheeks. “I understand completely if you don’t…”

Loghain leaned slightly inward to press his forehead against Maric’s. He hadn’t done it to keep him from babbling, but it worked just the same. “We can discuss it further in the morning,” he said, shutting his eyes.

A quick, exhaled puff of air skirted past his mouth. Maric’s free hand tangled in the hair at the base of his neck. “Of course.”

“I would want to speak to the boy, before any arrangements are made.”

“I doubt his parents would object.”

Loghain opened his eyes as Maric pulled away, just far enough to scrutinize him up and down. The furrow in his brow gave away concern even before he expressed it. Convincing Maric not to fuss over him was a longstanding campaign, one in which he consistently lost ground rather than gained it. Weary as he was, he found it difficult to mind.

“We’ve been up long enough,” Maric murmured, swiping beneath Loghain’s eyes as if he could brush away what were becoming permanent dark circles. “You look exhausted. Will you come to bed?”

Loghain kissed him then, as his response. In his touch, in the way he opened his mouth and breathed against Maric’s parted lips, he poured the things he couldn’t say. Each apology, every promise, even declarations, Maric took them all from him eagerly, and replaced them with thoughts of his own that were too fragile to be spoken aloud.

Any ghosts that may have lingered swiftly faded from Loghain’s mind.


End file.
